


The Seven Deadly Sins

by Harbinger



Category: The Black Tapes Podcast
Genre: Divine Comedy References, F/M, Jealousy, Mild Sexual Content, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 10:19:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13164867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harbinger/pseuds/Harbinger
Summary: He has learned, since they locked him up on suspected murder charges, to never let them see how their words chink his armor.





	The Seven Deadly Sins

**Author's Note:**

> our internet had a huge outage for like 10 hours last night so while my roommate and i watched the hobbit movies, we passed her laptop back and forth doing drabbles. this was the one she gave me that i managed to finish before we crashed. only hints of stragan here but there will be more to come later. come prompt or talk to me at [hookisms.](hookisms.tumblr.com) enjoy!

**LUST**

There lies within his life a swirling maelstrom of catastrophic winds, whose galing screams threaten to sweep him from sturdy limbs and batter him about amidst high-rise skyscrapers. The irony of this particular sensation is scarce lost upon a scholar who has delved deep into the Divine Comedy numerous times over the years; too well does he recall the canto in which the descriptions of the winds of lust punished those sinners.

He feels such a sensation now in particular, with his long digits entwined in a hold nigh bordered upon something like malice into the long, dark tendrils of the woman. She gasps with each violent thrust of his hips, the snap of flesh on flesh and the wet drag of viscous fluid accompanying her cries of pleasure. Down does he tuck his head to find the sweetness of her skin, salted with sweat and damp from it; teeth snap and drag, making her utter a keen of pleasure.

Strand will forget her name before the morning comes. In fact, he has forgotten it already. She will depart later, leave a card on the hotel table or simply slip out to be found at some other conference later on. Or perhaps not. Right now, all he cares for is the way she feels beneath him, braced against the back of the couch.

**GLUTTONY**

Cold rains sluice down from the heavens, forming a slick upon the frozen concrete and cobblestones that make up the streets. Slush drips from overhangs and icicles have begun to form as the temperature continues to drop. Soon, frigid rain will turn to brumal sleet will turn to flakes of snow leaking down from clouds currently unseen for the horrid fog which has ensnared the city within its grasp. Floes of ice snarl in the river, catching here and there. 

However, none of this currently affects Dr. Richard Strand. He sits enveloped in the sweet embrace of warmth within a small cafe not far from the skyscraper that houses the Strand Institute. Before him sits a steaming cup of tea with the leaves still swirling within, a slice of lemon seeping warmth and a touch of acidity into the sweet flavor. On a small napkin, also still steaming, a chocolate chip muffin that wafts a scent akin to what some believers must think suffuses Heaven.

In total, the tea and muffin came out to be about ten dollars, an extravagant amount of money for an eight ounce cup of tea and a muffin, but he thinks little of it. After all, he more than has the funds to spend.

And the tea is good.

**GREED**

One by one, he lifts items from a small box. Slender digits lightly cradle the first, stroking over the minute semblance of a visage. The doll had been a possession of Coralee's, purchased by her mother some years prior to their meeting. She had treasured it, despite Charlie having found it exceptionally creepy, something that had never failed to entertain her skeptical father. He lifts it to his nose and inhales, allowing his mind to trick him into thinking that the sweet odor of Coralee continued to linger upon it, even with her now some fifteen years dead and gone from this world. 

He should throw it, and the other knick-knacks within this box, out. There is no reason to keep them; none of it holds any monetary value and the box has been taking up space that could otherwise have been utilized for more books. Yet, he cannot help but to lightly press the doll close to his chest, once more inhaling against the hair of it. 

Call it greed. He places the doll into the box once more and returns it to its sanctified place upon the shelf.

**SLOTH**

Thunder crashes without, shuddering the entire building. Admittedly, that is a worrying prospect, given that his apartment sits easily upon the twentieth floor, but he disallows it to trouble him. It goes upon 9 am, a cold and wet Saturday having dawned some hours earlier. With each flash of lightning and monumental clap of thunder, he feels his desire to move from the warm cocoon of his bedding evaporating.

Weight shifts beneath the warmth of the thick covers and he feels a hand beginning to slide with lethargy down the sleek length of his side. A shiver ripples through the lines of his form.   
Bright eyes the hue of blue gemstones peek from under the covers, maw curling to a smirk crimson with remnants of the previous night's lipstick. Coralee has every intention of leaving it smeared upon his cock but her husband of six months instead draws her up to hold her close.

"Later," he murmurs. "We've all day."

**WRATH**

It bubbles and froths beneath the nexus of ribs, snarling like a fell beast that rakes claws to mark up his soul. It leaves him burning as if fire rages within his being, threatening to wrap around whatever he had been and scorch it until only ash and soot remains of him. It has been that way for years now, rage the likes of which what would murder another man, a lesser man, feeding him.

Too well he keeps it hidden at time, permitting it to come out only when it can be caged no longer. Here, one of those times. His home, that which has been a sanctuary of the same sort as his office at the Institute, lies in a wreck. Books are open upon the floor with pages loose and scattered. Glass pricks at bare feet, leaving blood to soil the hardwood floors. Throat aches where a raw and malicious roar had escaped earlier, leaving him endlessly grateful for the thick padding of insulation that prevents neighbors from being nosey. 

Wroth has burnt itself out for now, leaving only a hollow man kneeling amongst ruination.

**ENVY**

She returns from the woods with a smile upon her countenance and her verdant hues alight. How young it makes her seem, even moreso than she normally appears. She moves lightly, with an airy ease that recalls to mind the cautious way the self-proclaimed psychic moves, as if each step is a gift to be treasured. She had fun, he can tell, and a raw bitterness reaches up to grasp him by the throat.

How she had spoken of Tannis, with skepticism in her tone but something rather like amused affection shining her in orbs, had woken envy into him. A terrible jealousy had leapt into the confines of his throat, leaving him recalling the numerous times he had seen other men gazing with visible lust at Coralee. Frustration holds him, not at her but at himself, for his worthless envy over a woman that does not belong to him.

She had a good time in the woods. That is good. That is great.

**PRIDE**

An entire reputation has been cultivated on the simplistic knowledge of being right. There is no such thing as ghosts. There is no such thing as demons. There is no such thing as God or heaven or hell or poltergeists or hauntings. All that exists within this world is science, which has marched indomitable from the dull darkness of the early ages until now. Reason has been the might of scholars, the bible by which they live their lives, the altar upon which they worship.

Therefore, when questioned upon his beliefs, upon whether or not he is right about something, hackles rise sharply. Frustration mounts when simpletons refuse to understand that nothing upon this world is supernatural. There is always an explanation, a natural, reasonable, scientific explanation for everything.

Dr. Richard Strand is a very prideful man. Only a fool could look at him and not see that. Yet he has learned to mask when pride has been twinged behind cold aloofness. 

He has learned, since they locked him up on suspected murder charges, to never let them see how their words chink his armor.


End file.
